Motivated by a lecture, guest writer Vicki Dawson, realises a dream by climbing one shallow breath at a time to Everest’s Base Camp.

On October 25^th 2010, something that had started as a vague idea and then became a full blown obsession, led to me standing at Everest Base Camp crying my eyes out…

Armed with 80 wet wipes, two pair of trousers, two tops and some sturdy walking boots I arrived in a very rainy Kathmandu, both nervous and excited at the prospect of 10 days trekking in the Everest region.  My main concerns were:

Did I have enough clothes/underwear?  (Well, I’d just have to wait and see.)

Would I get altitude sickness? (I stocked up on Diamox from the local pharmacist in the hopes of preventing it.)

Would I get along with the other people in the group? (Quickly answered upon meeting my fellow trekkers – a very likeable bunch.)

Day 1: After much giddiness (me) and flicking of switches (the pilots) our very small plane took off for Lukla. Immediately the breathtaking beauty of the Himalayas revealed itself; the huge mountain ranges dominating the skyline. I could hardly believe that my dream was finally coming true …. except it wasn’t. Only 10 minutes out from Lukla the mountain mist descended and the plane was forced to make a U-turn back to Kathmandu.

What I didn’t know at the time is that Lukla is considered to be one of the Top 10 most dangerous airports in the world because planes have the tricky task of landing between two mountains on an uphill runway.  All I knew was that I felt cheated at having to spend another night in Kathmandu, not to mention, a little anxious about whether we’d be able to start the trek the next day.  It’s only when you reach Nepal that you realise that no matter how much you plan, you are at the mercy of the elements. It’s then you start to understand the challenges faced by the brave people who reach the summit. In fact, it was one of those people who inspired me to make this journey: Rebecca Stephens – the first British woman to climb Everest. I was fortunate enough to hear her speak about her incredible journey to the top; it was her talk that moved me to make my dream a reality.

Day 1 (Take Two): Thankfully the weather cooperated the next morning and we made it to Lukla, an unattractive town that immediately assaults the senses: the noise upon exiting the airport as a crowd of Nepalese vie for your attention in hopes of getting guiding or portering work; the smell of smoke rising from the guest houses; the tip tapping of the zopias (cow/yak crossbreed) on the cobbled streets and prayer flags flapping in the wind all combine to create a lasting impression.

After a hearty breakfast of porridge, the adventure began!

Dropping down from Lukla the trail meandered up a lush green valley along a river, through small villages with tiny makeshift houses and past quietly spinning prayer wheels.  Dirty faced children slid down a large stone, giggling and running back to the top to take their turn again. Vegetables were growing in small gardens and chickens picked at the bare earth. There was a strong scent of flowers and the only sound was the chit chat of trekkers making their way along the trail. It was one of the most peaceful places I’ve ever been and I was almost disappointed when we stopped for the day. However, the group bonding that evening, as we sat drinking endless amounts of tea, was the most fun I’ve had in a long time and set the tone for the great companionship we’d share throughout the trek.

Day 2: Setting off for Namche Bazar, a large town situated at 3,300 metres, we continued up a valley, traversing several suspension bridges crossing the foaming glacial river which ran down from Mount Everest. The bridges swayed ominously and when you met yaks heading towards you mid-bridge it was a case of clinging on for dear life and not looking down. The climb to Namche is the steepest climb of the trek and the first real taste of the effects of altitude. It was slow progress and at times it felt like I had no breath; like there was a tight band around my lungs. It was a struggle to concentrate on breathing and not hyperventilate.

When Namche finally came into view, with its shops and guest houses clinging to the steep hillside, it was a welcome sight. The last town on the Everest trail, it is the final chance to buy anything you might need, have a hot shower and use western toilets. From here on in, bathing opportunities would be limited and squat toilets the only choice.

Day 3: A day of acclimatisation around Namche, it started off well when the clouds parted and we were greeted with our first sight of the mighty Everest. I’d expected to see a tall triangular, solitary mountain and therefore was a tiny bit disappointed to see only the tip of Everest poking out of the mountain range. However, I later realised that at such a distance it’s difficult to get the real scale of the mountain.

After our brief Everest excitement we climbed 400 metres. It was hideous. Wheezing and gasping as I breathed air with only 64% of the oxygen found at sea level, I was glad to arrive 45 minutes later at a small tea house.  To celebrate, I ordered a large flask of hot chocolate, only to be rewarded with something that tasted more like dirt than Cadburys – I don’t think it will catch on!

A little wiser, before leaving Namche I stocked up on essentials: loo roll, as I was convinced that I would become victim to the raging trots at some point, and emergency chocolate (Cadburys) in case I encountered any more dirt-tasting chocolate. . .  I also had my first ever Skype experience in a small internet shop – my parents were so thrilled to hear from me that Mum gave Dad the phone in the shower!

Unfortunately, the effects of altitude were already beginning to reveal themselves.  As a result of taking the Diamox, I started experiencing tingling in my fingers and toes, HAFs (high altitude farts – a lovely side effect), along with a runny nose, increased urination, strange dreams and a dry mouth due to reduced moisture in the air.

Day 4: We set out along a winding trail perched high on the hillside with a dramatic drop down to the river on the right hand side, with the peak of Ama Dablam rising above to the left, and flapping prayer flags lining the route. The tranquillity of the trail was broken only by the cry of ‘Yak’ – which called for the immediate flattening of oneself against the hillside to avoid being run over by a yak train, as several heavily laden yaks swayed past, bells clanking.

I loved the yaks, they are amazing creatures: carrying heavy loads up and down the mountains; their wool used for clothing; their meat for food, their milk churned for cheese and the piece de resistance, their dung used as fuel.  The Nepalese collect fresh dung which they flatten into patties and leave to dry in the sun.  It’s then burnt on the stoves, providing warmth and acrid smoke in the trekkers’ tea houses.

Ending our day in Phortse, we were thrilled to be staying at a lodge owned by Sherpa Karma Rita, who’s undertaken numerous expeditions to Mount Everest and summitted an amazing five times.  Oh, and he’s also finished 2^nd in the Everest marathon – which he cites as his proudest achievement. He was amazing – incredibly humble, fetching water for the makeshift shower which involved a bucket of hot water and a little plastic shack outside, and serving food & drink to us. The village is home to many Sherpas, and surrounded by mountains it’s a perfect place to learn the trade. Being a Sherpa offers great rewards for the Nepalese. For Karma Rita, being a Sherpa provided financial security for himself and his family, enabling him to build the Lodge. It was a true honour to meet such a brave man.

Day 5: Despite the stunning scenery, it was a tough morning tackling several steep sections before lunch. For the first time thoughts of giving up crept into my mind when, bent double over my trekking pole, I was overcome with a wave of stomach cramps. Arriving at our lunch stop, half the group immediately fell asleep, but hunger and a bad headache (another high altitude delight) kept me wide awake.

In the afternoon, passing 4,000m and climbing above the tree line, the landscape started to change. We were surrounded by a rugged landscape dotted with a few gorse bushes. With its promise of ‘home comforts’ in the barren landscape, the tea-house was a welcome sight that evening.

Day 6: Another acclimatisation day which offered a chance to explore this new landscape, we climbed to Ama Dablam base camp. The steep terrain combined with the altitude made for a tough climb and it was with a real sense of achievement that I stood at the top and breathed in the beauty of the mountain range which enveloped me; Island Peak, Lhotse and Ama Dablam. After treating myself to a strange tasting bit of Dairy Milk (another altitude effect) I helped build a prayer tower, reverently placing my stone onto those of my companions and praying for a safe trip. Here in Nepal you feel closer to the Gods, its hard not to with the many prayer flags and wheels that you pass on the trek.

Unfortunately, the much-feared raging trots took hold, along with nausea and a general feeling of being under the weather. Most of the group were similarly affected. However, we considered ourselves comparatively lucky: Another group had a member in advanced stages of altitude sickness who was refusing treatment and would be dead within 24 hours if he stayed at altitude. It was a chilling reminder as to how dangerous the effects of altitude are. A fact compounded the following day when we reached the memorials for climbers who have died on Everest expeditions. Here, the names of the brave are captured forever amongst handmade stone pinnacles and the ever present prayer flags; it’s a very moving and humbling sight.

We continued on up the valley, the mountains rising high and wide to our left and right, the road flat and bare in front of us, with only the odd boulder breaking the bleakness. Arriving at Labouche, our last stop before heading for Base Camp, the effects of altitude increased – stomach cramps, a high resting heart rate, a dry hacking cough (Khumbu cough) along with lack of concentration and loss of appetite. A 50m height gain acclimatisation walk after lunch nearly finished me off. I struggled with the lack of oxygen and constant feelings of nausea. However, upon arriving at the top I was greeted with the sight of the glacier flowing down from Everest and the holy grail of Everest Base Camp shining in the distance. It was enough to keep me going, slowly putting one foot in front of the other – the prize of Base Camp driving me on.

Day 7: Finally the big day arrived. With an 8.5 hr trek in front of us I set off with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Through my three layers, down jacket and gloves I could still feel the chill wind in my bones and the thin air left me gulping for breath. Credit goes to one of my travelling companions who dropped back and walked with me to our first tea stop for keeping me motivated. There were many times on the trek where we were so reliant on each other for morale support that I considered myself to be very lucky to be with my group. We were determined to make Base Camp as one.

Heading into the final stage of the walk, the route along the undulating path is pretty hard going, however the sight of Everest’s summit above and Base Camp below, seemed to ease the passage. Encapsulated within the sweeping snowy mountain range the landscape is almost lunar in its appearance, with large grey rocks and dust as far as the eye can see. As we walked along I heard a distant rumbling which at first I thought was an aeroplane but then realised that it was the sound of hundreds of tonnes of snow sliding down the mountain in an avalanche. When we started descending into Base Camp (I wasn’t too happy knowing I would have to climb back up) I almost wanted to run the final few metres to reach my goal that little bit quicker and savour my achievement that little bit longer.

Reaching Everest Base Camp, I was elated; revelling in my achievement before being overcome with the emotion of the journey. Although it is little more than a flat rocky plateau with a large rock announcing it as Base Camp, for me, it was about what it stands for. Here the journey really begins for the many who risk their lives in pursuit of a dream to reach the top of the world. Standing in the camp, with the Khumbu icefalls and the trail onwards to 1^st base before me, the majesty of Everest resounded throughout my every sense. The beauty of the mountain before my eyes, the taste of dust in my mouth, the deafening silence punctuated by an avalanche and the very thin air (now only 50% that of sea level) drawn in through my nose. I’ll remember that moment until the day I die.

After a celebratory yak cheese sandwich, some sweets (a very thoughtful gift from a friend I carried all the way from home), lots of photos, hugs and a medal giving ceremony from one of our companions who had crafted individual medals for our group, it was time to leave.  Ten days walking for 30 minutes at Base Camp. That’s all you get.

It was only the afternoon but the temperature had already started to plummet and so with a 2.5 hour walk back to the tea house I started the slow and steady climb back up to the ridge. Of all the trekking this was one of the most difficult parts for me. Exhausted both physically and mentally it was a long and lonely walk. After the elation of Everest Base Camp it was difficult not to feel despondent as our goal had been reached. Now I just wanted to go home. I consoled myself at dinner with tomato soup, followed by half a plate of mash potato and dreamed of a hot shower and a toilet to sit on…

Day 8: For reasons unknown, I decided to get up at 4.30am to climb Kalar Pattar. This peak offers a legendary photo opportunity of the sun rising behind Everest and so with two pair of socks and several layers of clothes, I was one of seven (from our group of 12) that set out into the -10c morning. It was a wonderful sight to see the mountain range lit by moonlight, the night sky clear and the stars shining brightly but that was about as good as it got. The climb of 2km with a height gain of 400m was non-stop steep, and the fight for breath was one I felt like I was losing. The cold seeped into my bones and I lost the feeling in my fingers and toes after only 30 minutes. Two of the group made the sensible decision to turn back, but I doggedly persisted, inching my way upwards as night turned to dawn and the sky started to lighten. Finally, after two hours I reached the top and collapsed into a sobbing heap. This climb had broken me and I have to confess that I used up all three of the cries I had allowed myself, for the entire trek, in that one morning.

It was bitterly cold at the summit and there was no respite from the chilling wind as we waited for the sun to take its place for our photographs. I never got to see it though, following a particularly bad attack of the Khumbu cough, nausea and mental confusion I admitted defeat knowing that I urgently needed to get down from altitude. Leaving my camera with my partner I made my way back down the mountainside, towards breakfast, warmth and more air.

Day 9 & 10: All that was left now was two days trekking back to Lukla where our plane to Kathmandu awaited. The way down included a trek through ‘windy valley’ (it was) and a visit to the highest monastery in the world at Tengboche, where the monks wear hiking shoes and down jackets. Oh and if you’re ever passing by they have an excellent bakery that serves Lavazzo coffee.  As we descended the scenery reversed with the bare landscape giving way to lush valleys and soon we were back at Namche for our last stop before Lukla, where I was disappointed by a lukewarm shower.

Before we knew it, the group were back in Lukla in accommodation so terrible that I was overjoyed the next day to wake to the sound of planes taking off knowing that I wouldn’t have to spend another night here. So with a sense of happiness I said a fond farewell to Everest and climbed onto the plane.

I left Nepal two days later, weighing 3.5 kilos less than when I arrived, with several new friends, lots of mementos and memories which will last me a lifetime.  As trips go, this one will be hard to beat.

(A silly little article with no offence intended to any of the destinations involved.)

So! I’ve decided that I need to fly into Massawa, Eritrea, Africa because its three lettered IATA airport code (MSW) matches my initials and I want the personalised luggage tags as the ultimate travel accessory that would accompany any flight there.

This got me thinking of alternative airport codes that might hold significance to others and after doing some digging I found the following:

For example, if your name is ABE get thee to Allentown, Pennsylvania. SAM? Chart a course for Salamo, Papua New Guinea. JIM? You might want to join me in Eritrea then pop next door to Jimma, Ethiopia. TOM? Prepare yourself for a trek to the fabled Tombouctou, Mali. Depending on whether you go by SID or SYD you’ll want to venture to Sal, Cape Verde, or Sydney, Australia respectively. Likewise if your name is ROB it might be a bit of a trek to get to Monrovia, Liberia, but if you go by BOB count yourself exceedingly lucky that you share your name with Bora Bora, Tahiti airport’s code – one of the most spectacular places on Earth.

Perhaps titles are more important to you than names and if so I suggest any MOM make haste to Moudjeria, Mauritania, whereas my MUM (and other British/Australian mothers) is better suited to fly to Mumias, Kenya. Likewise your DAD might appreciate a Father’s Day trip to Da Nang, Vietnam while your POP probably prefers Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic. And yo’ BRO? He might enjoy a trip to Brownsville, Texas, while your SIS might like Sishen, South Africa. Meanwhile, show your BUD you care with a trip to Budapest, Hungary, or spread the LUV by taking everyone to Langgur, Indonesia.

I’ve always said life is much easier if you just say YES to things. It would seem in Yasuj, Iran they agree. YEP, they think similarly in Estevan Point, Canada but are a bit more casual about committing. UMM, the same can’t be said about Summit, Alaska, where it would appear they’re a bit more indecisive.

I love that both Fortaleza, Brazil (FOR) and Port of Spain, Trinidad & Tobago (POS) have such affirmative attitudes, unfortunately the same can’t be said of Tromso, Norway where they don’t give a TOS, or Sioux City, Iowa where everything SUX. **

I happen to know firsthand that Dunedin, New Zealand is a beautiful town to visit, but you wouldn’t know it from their airport code (DUD).  By the way, does anyone know what’s got the people of Madrid (MAD) all worked up? Or what’s so BAD about Shreveport, Louisiana or ODD about Oodnadatta, South Australia?

RUN don’t walk to the picturesque Reunion Island; while they’d prefer you rest awhile in Sitka, Alaska. (SIT)

“What are you insinuating!?,” asked the portly passenger flying to Fresno, California when the airline representative attached the FAT luggage label to her bags. (Perhaps she’d made one too many trips to St. Petersburg, Florida (PIE) or worse yet was transiting through Fresno on her way to Butler, Missouri (BUM). Is a trip via Big Delta, Alaska (BIG) to Kearney, Nebraska (EAR) any less insulting?

And with airlines cutting back on meal service isn’t it a slap in the face to tag bags with EAT? That’ll be the case if you’re heading to Wenatchee, Washington, but presumably you’ve arrived at the airport with a full stomach if flying to Antlers, Oklahoma. No meal service? No problem. I already ATE.

While on the subject of food: If you’re a fan of FIG, then fly to Fria, Guinea. Hungry for HAM? (Or maybe you’re just a bit of a clown) head to Hamburg, Germany. Got a thing for GUM? Go to Guam in the South Pacific. Aching for ALE, Alpine, Texas is the place for you. A passion for PIE? Proceed to St Petersburg, Florida. Or perhaps as a food lover you’d rather succinctly state your affection by simply travelling to Yuma, Arizona. YUM.

On the silly side of things, it does seem a little redundant to attach an AIR luggage label, or SKY for that matter, to your baggage. Aren’t they givens? But that’s the case if you’re going to Aripuana, Brazil or Sandusky, Ohio respectively.

And while air travel can feel like a cattle train, don’t get confused when they tag your bags with BUS if you’re en route to Batumi, Georgia.

It also seems to be stating the incredibly obvious to label your bag with BAG (Baguio, Philippines). I mean DUH! (Lambertville, Michigan) Of course it’s a bag! Or as Homer Simpson would say DOH! (Doha, Qatar)

Speaking of expressions … the people of these places must be a particularly expressive bunch:

I’m thinking they’re a frightful lot in Bodo, Norway (BOO) and somewhat sheepish in Bahrain (BAH). I’m guessing there’s more than one mouse in the house in Eek, Alaska (EEK) and that things are chilly in North Bay, UK (BRR). Are they in pain in Ottawa, Canada? (YOW) And what?! What is it??! What’s everyone exclaiming about in Willow, Alaska. (WOW) Tell me please!

Not everything can be taken so literally tho. For example, I’m not sure there’s an APE to be found in San Juan Aposento, Peru nor a YAK in Yakutat, Alaska. It might be a safer guess to assume you’ll find a COW in Coquimbo, Chile, more than one CAT on Cat Island, Bahamas, and a DOG or two in Dongola, Sudan – not too mention at least one BUG in Benguela, Angola. But imagine the confusion (and identity crisis) if you were transporting any other animal to these destinations.

While on the subject of appropriate labels, could there be a better luggage tag for a holiday destination than Funafuti Atol, Tuvalu? (FUN) But then that begs the question: Are they truly happier in Gaya, India (GAY) or just better at coordinating textiles? By the way, I’m still trying to figure out who the joke is on in Gage, Oklahoma (GAG) – me or them?

Another mystery: As a misinformed child I was always led to believe that if I dug too deeply at the beach I’d end up in China? But in Diqing, China (DIG) where do they end up?

As acronyms go, here’s some FAQ I’m sure they get asked in Frieda River, Papua New Guinea:

Is Altamira, Brazil (ATM) a good place to do your banking?

Does Ile Ouen, New Caledonia (IOU) feel a debt of gratitude or are they just behind the eight ball?

Is there something they’re not telling us in Ciampino, Italy (CIA)?

Are people funnier in Lovelock, Nevada? (LOL) No? Then why are they laughing out loud all the time?

What’s so surprising about Omega, Namibia that’s got everyone exclaiming OMG?!

Are people in Anchorage, Alaska in a healthier head space than the rest of us? (MRI)

Are conditions cramped in Palmyra, Syria? (PMS) (Surely this something no woman wants advertised on her luggage!)

Is there some greater mystery to be solved in Okinawa, Japan (DNA)?

Do they text message a lot in Sainte Marie, Madagascar? (SMS)

Is Casino, Australia (CSI) a hotbed of crime? And in Miami, Florida (MIA) is it more than just bags that go missing?

Is there a higher prevalence of ill-tempered, bad-mannered males in Sármellék, Hungary (SOB)?

Finally, does anyone actually stop in Vienna, Austria (VIA) or do they just pass on through?

And while there seems a distinct lack of creativity in Longview, Texas (GGG) – perhaps there’s some underlying message in the following: That a trip to Rhode Island (UUU) is all about you; the people of Mont-Joli, Canada (YYY) obviously have a lot of questions; while those in Proserpine, Australia (PPP) obviously have to ‘go’ badly. Finally, is Anaa, French Polynesia’s airport code (AAA) akin to a five star rating? And if so, does that mean Benson, Minnesota, (BBB) and Cayo Coco, Cuba (CCC) took second and third place respectively? Sadly there’s no XXX. I’m guessing because you’d never get your bags through Customs.

Speaking of XXX (reader discretion advised) here’s a question: While there is a certain intrigue in saying you’re flying to SEX (Sembach, Germany), if you SIN (Singapore) is the next stop HEL (Helsinki, Finland)?

It’s bad enough to say you’re flying to FOK (Westhampton, NY) but worse I’m guessing if you transiting through FUK (Fukuoka, Japan) en route to OFF (Offut Air Force Base, Omaha) then you’re luggage tag would read ….

The French have a way of making everything sound refined, particularly in Poitiers, France (PIS), especially when compared to the direct approach of Perm, Russia (PEE) and well, a visit to Pocos De Caldas, Brazil (POO) – enough said.

Perhaps the least fortunate of all airport codes reside in Madagascar – a place oddly enough I have desperately wanted to go since I was a child. That said I might avoid the following airports. I mean who wants to be DOA in Doany, Madagascar? What kind of flight would that be? Similarly, where’s the holiday fun in going to Antsiranana, Madagascar and telling your friends that you’re excited because “I’m going to DIE.”

By the way, I’m off to Les Cayes, Haiti tomorrow. CYA.

** Click Here – for a great article from the LA Times on how Sioux City, Iowa is making the most of its airport code: SUX

No doubt I’ve missed some clever and funny airport codes. If you find any others, fire away!

… and the plane hadn’t even left the tarmac yet.

There’s something exciting about flying the national carrier of your destination from your home country – what with the foreign accents of the flight crew, the different food etc. it’s like starting your holiday early; like you’ve already arrived when you haven’t yet departed. Then there’s something even more exciting which is flying another nation’s carrier entirely.

I used to like flying Air India from New York City to London. The fare was unbeatable and the flight was always a rich cultural experience.  On one flight in particular, I was sitting next to a 19 year old British lad. He was already settled in his seat when I boarded. I sat down next to him and waited for the rest of the plane to fill.

Anyway, an Indian man behind The Lad kept knocking The Lad’s seat and The Lad overreacted by turning around to the man and saying “Oi, you knock my seat one more time and I’ll ‘ave your ‘ead.” The SeatKnocker was about to indignantly reply when the stewardess watching from the aisle stepped in to chastise The Lad:

“Excuse me sir, if you have a problem with another passenger you come to me. Please do not take matters into your own hands.” Then she turned her attention to The SeatKnocker, “And you sir! You I remember from the flight to New York. You are a problem. And if you don’t behave yourself I’ll have you taken off this flight.”

Now The SeatKnocker once smug was twice as indignant. “You cannot talk to me like that! You are a stewardess, YOU are my servant.”

To which the stewardess calmly and carefully replied. “No sir. Your wife sitting next to you, she may be your servant, but me, I am not.”

The cabin erupted! It was a cacophony of ‘for’ and ‘against’ as every passenger chimed in over the exchange while The Lad who had inadvertently started WWIII silently slunk into his seat.

It was the most colourful flight I had ever taken and we hadn’t even pushed back from the gate.

Have you got a colourful flight or bus ride you’d like to share?

My best flight ever. Hands down, absolutely ever!

I had been in Hong Kong with a good friend of mine, CherryPop (this is truly his nickname). We’d even extended our stay by one day we were having such a great time. Having gone through customs & security at the airport in preparation for our return flight to Sydney we were just about to walk up the stairs to the Virgin Atlantic (another airline I love!) Upper Class lounge when I spied one of my best friends, ReallySmartGuy, about to walk into a shop with his young son. I couldn’t believe my luck. Moreso because ReallySmartGuy lived in London at the time, so bumping into him in Hong Kong seemed extraordinary. What’s more he was also en route to Sydney on the same Virgin Atlantic flight as we were.

I’ll never fully understand coincidence like that: the fact that we would be in the airport on the same day, particularly when I was supposed to have flown the day before and only changed my flight at the last moment. Then there was that split second timing that allowed us to meet. One minute either way and we would have missed each other – me up the stairs and my friend into the shop with his son. Not too mention we were in two different classes that boarded the aircraft from two separate air-bridges. We could have just as easily been on the same plane and been none-the-wiser if we hadn’t bumped into each other.

Never one to pass up an opportunity, as soon as I got on board I asked the cabin crew if I could bring my best mate up to Upper Class. Not a problem they said. I don’t think anyone could have denied my enthusiasm at that stage. The three us sat at the uber-cool Virgin Atlantic  bar while ReallySmartGuy’s son sat in my seat watching cartoons.

Here I was doing what I love most (so often the solo traveller) but this time flanked by two great mates, drinking cocktails, flying at 35,000 ft. I couldn’t have been happier. At times we were so caught up in our camaraderie and conversation that it MIGHT have appeared we were oblivious to the fact that we were flying long haul to Sydney. Far from it! In our quiet moments we exchanged knowing smiles, childish self-satisfied grins, we felt like rock stars on a private jet.

Have you got a story of bizarre coincidence, of meeting someone overseas / in another corner of the country in the most unlikely of places and / or circumstances?

I am sitting by the side of the road, California Interstate 5 to be exact, at 11pm on a Friday night as I write this.

I was on longhaul bus trip from Las Vegas to San Francisco. ‘Was’ being the operative word. My Greyhound bus, which was running about 60 mins late as it was, has broken down due to loss of air pressure which has rendered the brakes useless. It’s roughly three hours before an alternate bus can reach us here in the middle of nowhere … and then another four hours until we get to San Francisco … so our scheduled midnight arrival will now by more like 5am. (Friends encouraged me to fly but I wanted to see the California countryside and save some money – not that I’m complaining!)

Most of the passengers are still inside the bus which rocks every time a semi-trailer whips pasts at 70miles per hour. The bus driver is patiently babysitting those that keep wandering off into the bush. Most particularly those with a penchant for smoking that neglect to fully extinguish their cigarettes in the dry scrub. (That’s all we need is everything to go up in flames around us.)

I’m trying to find the ‘experience’ in all this. Patience? Acceptance of what you cannot change? One of the passengers spread his picnic blanket over the prickly brush and offered me a seat. When I stop to look around there’s three things I can’t help but notice: 1) On the odd instant when the traffic thins, the pitch black darkness rapidly closes and the stars appear incredibly beautiful, full, and abundant. 2) The traffic on the highway is loud. Louder than I would have expected. Why animals even come close to highways is now mystery. 3) The bus passengers, aside from an initial bit of grumbling have quietly settled into their fate. I would have expected more outrage, frustration expressed – you certainly see enough of it at airports – but here everyone is has taken the break down in stride.

Kudos goes to the bus driver, who as our designated leader has calmed the troops and led by example.

By contrast, my earlier bus ride from Las Vegas into San Fernando was on a working bus but with an ornery driver named Richardson that had the whole bus up in arms. Greyhound service 6007 was  scheduled to depart at 9:30am but was 45 minutes late in leaving. At the first stop, a rest break, he told the passengers to be back aboard the bus in 20 minutes, and we were. Unfortunately, Richardson didn’t deem to get back on the bus until 35 minutes later. We were now running 60 mins late.

Even more frustrating was Richardson’s attitude. Whenever a passenger, myself included, asked him about the delay and our concerns about making our connections to other buses, he was just short of rude saying, “We’ll get there when we get there.” Eventually he had so many people asking him the same question, he made a point of repeating the same tired, unhelpful answer over the PA system. THAT’S when people finally lost their patience.

Adventure on the high seas need not be the exclusive domain of sea-faring souls; even sea-fearing landlubbers can set sail and prove their sea worthiness by crewing on a private boat.

First and foremost, let me clarify, I am not a sailor.

I knew nothing of boats and even less about sails, but none of this stopped me from successfully crewing aboard a sailboat from Fiji to New Zealand.

It was while backpacking through Fiji’s capital Suva that I came across a youth hostel notice seeking sailing crew in exchange for passage across the South Pacific to New Zealand. Despite having an airline ticket to Auckland I was intrigued by the prospect so I applied.

Any hesitations I had about my complete lack of sea-faring experience were cast away the moment I saw the boat moored in the harbour. Christened “The Adelaar” it was closer in appearance to a tall ship than the yacht I had anticipated. The double masted schooner was approximately 110 feet long. Its iron hull dated back to the early 1900s and was covered by a wooden deck. Portholes punctuating the hull provided a salt stained glimpse into an interior containing four private bedrooms, a large kitchen and a cosy communal room with comfortable looking oversized lounges.

Onboard, I met the captain and his wife. A Swiss couple who, after more than a decade of sailing, were on their way to settle in New Zealand for the sake of their two ocean-raised children approaching school age. This was to be their last voyage.

I passed what limited questions were asked of me. Had I sailed before? “No.” Did I get seasick? “Don’t know, never sailed before.” Could I cook? “Not if my life depended on it!”.

That settled, I was invited to join the crew and for the ten day privilege of passage was asked to part with a small sum to cover food and lodging. Initially, my land-lock mind objected to having to pay to work, but apparently this agreement is quite standard between crew and captain. I was working for my passage only and couldn’t expect the captain to supplement my voracious appetite.

But the truth was I was hooked the moment I set foot aboard this classic vessel. To me the idea of sailing across the South Pacific embodied a romantic age of exploration. Even if I had to wash dishes and peel potatoes to supplement my travel, I wanted this experience.

Sharing this working holiday, my fellow crewmembers included two Canadians; an American university student; a British backpacker, a couple from Norway, and the youngest, a 19 year old Kiwi.

Our excitement on the first day aboard was palpable. Among the eight interns – six boys, two girls – only the Kiwi had any previous sailing experience. The rest of us were amateurs – and treated as such by the captain.

Like kids set loose on a new playground, we spent our first hours climbing the ship’s masts and exploring its every nook and cranny. Reigned in by the captain we were given knot tying lessons, familiarised with the boat’s working parts and instructed about ship safety – or it seemed, lack thereof.

When someone sensibly inquired about using harnesses to secure us to the boat, the captain told us there were no harnesses. Nervous novices we pressed the issue further: What happens if one of us should fall over board?

His patience tried, the captain curtly replied that if we were lucky enough to see someone fall overboard, we were to release a flag bearing buoy into the water to mark the spot of the man overboard. But, he said, by the time the ship could navigate a full circle even the flagged buoy would be hard to find much less the lost soul. I can’t be certain but I’m sure he mumbled something like, “So we won’t bother”. Comforting.

He continued the safety tour by pointing to two fiberglass encased life rafts perched atop the wheelhouse. ”The smaller life raft costs $5,000, the larger one $8,000 – so don’t use them!”, he scowled. And with that he was off to consult his charts. The tone of the trip was set.

With two sick children to care for the captain’s wife was not accompanying us on the voyage – instead she would fly to New Zealand with the children and await our arrival.

Finally the time came to set sail. The anchor lifted? The main sail up? The sheet secured? The first, second and third bow sails raised? The mission sail hoisted? Aye aye Captain! Then Mother Nature gently blew us a kiss that filled the sails. They embraced the affection and we were on our way. Sailing at a speed of six knots/hour we headed out of the sheltered harbour and into the open sea.

I slipped into the ship’s hammock while the sunset painted the sky. On the starboard reds, yellows, and oranges burned into the clouds, while to the port, blues, greens, and purples subdued the fiery firmament. As I lay there, the sea’s swell taking the effort out of rocking the hammock myself, I waved good bye to the cape of Kondavu – the last bit of land I was to see for some time. Could life be anymore poetic?

But this was not a cruise ship, but a crew ship. There was work to be done. As crew, we were to consistently man the deck using a rotating eight-hour roster that paired people together for three two-hour shifts with a six-hour break in between. But as I was to learn nightly the work didn’t stop there. Even if I had just completed my shift and was drifting off to sleep, it did not exclude me from midnight calls to deck to be one of the four men regularly needed to adjust the sails.

While the actual steering was left to an autopilot repeatedly programmed by the captain, it was our responsibility to ensure the boat stayed on course. We were also on the look out for changes in the wind’s direction to ensure the boat maintained speed.

At night, when our frugal captain felt it best to conserve energy and sail without lights, we had to be especially diligent in watching for the lights of other ships that wouldn’t see us. We never hit anything, nor did we come close, but at the back of my mind during the entire trip was the thought that we might come across another unlit ship captained by an equally thrifty individual as our own and then ……

Life was idealic for the first couple of days, my watches were uneventful allowing me time to postulate about which ancient seafaring explorer’s wake I was following. I marveled at the breadth of the ocean, which stretched out to the horizon in all directions, making it easy to believe the world was flat and we were the centre of the universe.

Meals were made in rounds by the different watch teams. With such culinary cultural diversity amongst the crew we were treated to everything from a Nordic fish soup, freshly caught, to Tex-mex vegetarian. And with every meal, warm ship-baked bread.

On the afternoon of our second day at sea, the captain emerged from the bowels of the ship to break everyone’s resort-like reverie. We were to face the challenges of an impending storm. It was to hit either later that evening or the next morning. All hands were on deck as we were rushed through emergency procedures. We were taught how to tighten sails in high winds and shown how to reef in a portion of the sail so that wilder winds would still work to our advantage without overpowering us.

By dinner the weather started to change. Our meal was interrupted as we were called to reef in one of the sails and let the boom out. Twice more during the night I was woken to assist on deck as the storm moved closer.

By the morning the storm had hit. Sleep deprived from a night of crewing I woke to a violently tossing ship as seven metre high waves played carelessly with our vessel. The excessive length of the Adelaar made it awkward to ride up one wave and down the other. Instead, the ship was forced to bridge two waves at once – often unsuccessfully – as the bow came crashing down into the second wave’s trough with a boat-shaking thud, or alternatively, was propelled through the second wave as the ship continued its journey down the first. Either way, water washed onto the deck in great swells as Poseidon’s giant hands reached from the depths to claim us for his own, only to relinquish his grip at the last moment.

One night, perhaps the scariest during our adventure in the storm, I was called to deck along with the rest of the crew for one of our midnight maneuvers. I was told by the captain to climb atop the wheelhouse to move the preventor rope from the ship’s starboard to its port. The rope had to be secured before the boom could be swung across to the other side or we ran the risk of the boom swinging out too wide when we tacked directions.

While the roof of the wheelhouse was a textured metal for added grip, in the slippery rain it did little to inspire confidence.

Crouched atop the roof, with nothing connecting me to the ship, I did my best Spiderman impersonation. The pitch and roll of the boat, combined with the roof’s angle, had me looking directly over the deck’s railing and into a watery grave below. I clambered across the wheelhouse passing the rope from one side to the other while my fellow crewmembers struggled to turn the ship around. Flattening myself against the wet roof, the main boom swung over top of me literally inches above my body.

In that moment time stood still. High up on the 30 metre masts four lamps enveloped the ship in light, creating a distinctive line between our own little world and the darkness beyond. I remember thinking at the time that this is what it must be like to be trapped in a crystal ball as Greek Gods gaze down and debate your fate amongst each other.

It seems they were on my side. I was allowed to escaped death’s slobbery maw.

The days during the storm became a blur. But I clearly remember twice looking to the moody sky and thinking about the airline ticket I had sacrificed for this escapade when I could have been in New Zealand after just a six-hour flight.

When the storm abated three days later, it had left its mark. Of our nine crewmembers, five were bed-ridden with sea-sickness – one of them was the captain! He still managed to crawl to the deck occasionally to re-set the autopilot and vomit over the side before descending into the ship’s depths to be tossed and turned some more.

Amazingly, I was not sick. I don’t deny having a couple of very close calls – I felt particularly green most of the time – but I can proudly say a bland diet of mash potatoes helped me withstand the challenge.

With the bed-ridden unable to take their shifts, it was decided between the four remaining – the two girls, the Kiwi and myself – to divide the watch into two-hour single man shifts.

And so it was at 2am that night, I found myself performing a solitary watch while the rest of the ship slept. Dressed in warm layers and coated in wet weather gear, I stood at the back of the boat and communed with the mighty sea one on one. And it was frightening…

The ocean was still incredibly rough. Every time the bow crashed through a wave it picked up a cargo of water that raced down the side decks to swirl around my knees before draining off the stern. I worried whether the next wave would be large enough to wash me overboard.

I was also spooked by the idea that I was the only conscious creature as far as the eye could see. It drove home the responsibility resting on my shoulders for the ship’s safety and the welfare of those she held cocooned. And for some reason, I thought of ghosts.

They say an idle mind wanders, so in the middle of the night, in the middle of the ocean, unbeknownst to the crew below I chased away the sea-bound souls and the great ship’s ghosts by plugging into my music and dancing around the deck.

One of the funniest things to happen during the voyage was when the small life raft came flying off the wheelhouse and landed in the ocean. The three of us nearby raced to retrieve it by its ship-attached line. As we struggled to haul it in, its fiberglass canister broke open and the life raft inflated. Even so, the three of us managed to pull it alongside the boat before it filled with water and had to be cut loose. Nobody but the captain was particularly upset, because we couldn’t mourn something that was never ours. I thought I heard someone mumble, “Serves him right”, but I can’t be sure.

By day seven, the sea started to calm down and the ship slowly came back to life. Portholes were safely opened, allowing fresh air to stream into the boat’s belly and force the stale sick smell out. Dirty dishes that had accumulated during the storm were finally attacked and put away.

An albatross, with its massive wings gliding gracefully over the ocean currents, came to greet us as a goodwill ambassador.

Reasserting our control over the ship, we set about raising all her sails. I had the exhilarating pleasure of hoisting the bow sails.

Wearing waterproof overalls, I climbed into the net strung between the boat’s bow and the extending boom pole. Suspended above the water, as I went about releasing the tied sails, the ship’s bow regularly dipped into the oncoming waves and I went along for the ride of my life. The experience was akin to being dropped into the dunking tank at a local fete, but far more fun. No sooner was I submerged in the ocean up to my chest than the ship rode to the top of the next wave and I was ripped from the water to swing five metres above the swell.

Our final two days at sea were picture perfect if not a little boring. The glassy sea was as still and as serene as a Swiss Lake. (Something I would never have believed until I saw it with my own eyes.) The sun was shining strong in a bluer than blue sky. Everyone was outside and no one was worried about shifts. The stereo speakers were put on deck and in our own private amphitheater we turned the music up loud. And the albatross, enjoying our company, had taken up residence on the stern’s currents.

In retrospect, the days during the storm had provided such an adrenaline rush that straight sailing paled slightly in comparison. Cabin fever had also set in. Even with 110 feet of ship, finding personal space was a challenge after nine days of living in closed quarters.

I busied myself by sewing sails damaged during the storm and even made an attempt at steering. My first endeavour navigating failed miserably when I somehow managed to turn the ship around 180 degrees in less than half an hour. The shifting sunlight in his cabin aroused an angry captain who raced from below to relieve me of my post.

As promised on the tenth day we reached New Zealand. Dolphins leapt through the bow spray to greet us and to the starboard, the welcome sight of the country’s lush, green coastline. After ten days on the open sea, with an unfettered view to the horizon, it felt almost claustrophobic to be so close to land.

Pulling into dock, we worked like a finely tuned instrument. Each of us knowing what to do after more than a week’s experience crewing, compared to the notes we first played.

When it comes to nautical know-how, despite sailing ten days across the South Pacific, I would still hesitate to qualify myself as being worth my weight in sea salt. During the entire ten days at sea we never saw another soul, another ship on the horizon or a piece of land between Fiji and New Zealand. Despite having the company of eight others it was a very solitary experience. Sleepless nights, hard work, sea sickness ……

But crazy as it sounds, given the opportunity, I would do the whole trip again for the experience has only served to whet my appetite.

(Footnote: The Adelaar is still alive and well cruising around Indonesia with a new owner and offering sailing expeditions.)

Have you done something completely ‘green’ and inexperienced but risen to the challenge?

I’m travelling Alaska to Las Vegas. It sounds more impressive than it really is. I’m aboard my first Alaska Airlines flight as I write this.

Top Tip – Barely inside the US border and a short bus ride from Vancouver, Bellingham is a small, manageable airport that offers incredibly inexpensive flights further into the States via Alaska Airlines and Allegiant Air – with low taxes because you’re flying domestically as opposed to internationally.

I am bound for Las Vegas on what can only be described as a party plane. I have to wonder, are all planes bound for Las Vegas similarly filled with rambunctious passengers? Mine is filled with no less than two stag parties en route to what no doubt will be a wild weekend in Sin City. A woman, obviously inebriated, is running up and down the aisle with a mini-bridal veil attached to her head. (Kudos to the Alaska Airline flight attendants who are taking the party spirit in stride and even offering shout outs over the PA system to those with birthdays and impending nuptials.)

I’m sitting here wondering why more gaggles of gals and fraternities of boys don’t make trips together outside of pre-wedding flings. Flying with family is fine, a loved one romantic, but by the raucous behaviour here on this plane there’s no doubt flying with friends is a blast!

(Footnote: Upon landing the already noisy plane erupted into loud cheers and whoops of excitement as the flight attendant announced ‘Welcome to Las Vegas’. My ears are still ringing.)

What’s the best experience you’ve shared with friends on the road?

Today I bought a piece of wrapping paper, not because I had a gift to give – nor in fact will I likely use it to wrap a gift – it’s too nice. I bought it because the images on it caught my eye. I bought it for what those images represent.

It is a collage of old advertisements for grand international hotels and stately cruise liners, mixed with old luggage tags and different-shaped stylised stickers for destinations around the world. I’ve never been good with dating things… the 30s, 40s, 50s? It doesn’t matter but to me it represents a time when travel was fun. Not the destination, but the very act of getting there. When the journey was slower, and savoured as such, and you dressed up for it like any other event. The golden age of glamorous travel.

I could lament that the days of perfectly-preened, stylish stewardesses serving three course meals on china plates are gone, etc but to be honest I’m not old enough to remember. They’re just romantic images in the movies for me. (Check out Toronto-based Porter Airlines for this retro flavour). Although I have heard rumour that such things exist in First Class (sadly, I’ve never been) but that more often than not stylish has been replaced by surly. Even so, I do remember travel pre-September 11 travel. When shoes stayed on, knifes were metal and actually cut your food, and you could take your liquids on board. Of course I miss that. I’m even angry about it. That such a wonderful and amazing thing such as humans taking to the air – breaking free from Earth’s hold and with the speedy ability to get halfway around the planet in less than a day! – should become a hassle.

I love flying. My excitement builds the moment I get to the airport and scan the screens for all the destinations available to me – I let my imagination linger – before finding my flight. While shuffling through long check-in lines I’m observing my fellow passengers, wondering what brings us together on this shared experience. I always ask for a window seat so I can marvel at my departure city from above and gain insight into my destination city upon arrival. I also love watching the wing of the plane as we land. The engineering that sees it double in size as it extends against incredible airstream forces to slow the plane down.

I love the ritual of boarding. The very excitement of stepping over the threshold and onto the plane; in a world of squared corners I always acknowledge the curving exterior of the plane and take a moment to realise that this is something different, special, not to be taken for granted. And while I love being greeted by the crew, particularly if I’m getting on the national carrier of the country I’m travelling to  – their foreign accent can incite an instant surge of excitement that you’re halfway there – I’ll never understand why they need to look at my seat assignment even when there are two aisles to choose from.

I love the exhilaration of take off, the uncertainty of landing. (I love that in most Latin American countries a good landing – that would be any safe landing – is greeted with an enthusiastic round of applause from the whole cabin.) Sometimes I am childlike during a flight, pushing all the buttons, trying to watch as many movies as possible between flipping back and forth between the flight tracking map and constantly looking out the window to see what daylight and cloud cover reveal. Sometimes cities, sometimes mountains, sometimes landscapes dotted with a myriad of reflective lakes, sometime vast oceans of humbling nothing. I love seeing the shadow of my plane on the ground below for the perspective it brings.

I like the food. I know I’m going to lose some of you here. But truly I do. The thought that’s gone into making this perfectly packaged meal that has to excite, enliven and nourish. I’m often asking for a second meal if there are any spares, and there always is.

I once took a sleeping pill on a flight between Toronto and Vancouver and missed all this! The sleeping pill was 6 hours, the flight 5. Thanks to the pill I fell asleep before the plane even pulled away from the gate and only awoke when the wheels touched down on the tarmac. Some would call that the perfect flight. For me it was one of the strangest days in my life. I had no accounting of how I got to Vancouver and walking around the city that day felt completely displaced. Worse yet I missed the experience of getting there. I can only imagine how ‘Beam me up, Scotty’ transporting technology will leave a future generation similarly displaced and the joy of the journey all but lost.

Ok, I’m not a fan of the Immigration queues at the end of the journey. But who can deny the excitement that comes from an official welcome and the all important passport stamp that says ‘hey, you did, you got here!’. (Unless you’re dealing with American immigration, hands down the worst welcome in the world.)

And while the seemingly random reveal of luggage on the carousel – (Am I the only one that wants to jump on it and go for a ride?) – can be a bit of an anxious and impatient wait when you’re eager to discover your new destination, nothing beats the emotionally-charged atmosphere of the Arrivals Hall! I rarely have people waiting for me but when do I celebrate along with the rest of the greeted passengers. But more often than not as I stroll past I revel in the anticipatory faces of those waiting, searching for their friends, their family and the resulting unbridled excitement, tears, and joy when they finally have those that they’ve come for in their arms and by their sides. You can feel the love in the room. It’s overwhelming. I’ve had an amazing and rich experience already and I haven’t even left the airport to discover my destination yet.

Experience # 901

Travelling to the coldest, driest, windiest and least inhabited place in the world to gape at floating ice cubes is not everyone’s idea of a holiday. In fact, roughly only 10,000 privileged people a year have the passion to venture into this eternal winter wonderland, but for those who do the rewards are great.

There is a timelessness about Antarctica that humbles even the most jaded tourist. From snow-laden mountain peaks, century old glaciers, tinged a striking turquoise from eons of compressed snow, slowly descend to the sea. Calving junks of ice regularly break from the glaciers falling into the water with a thunderous, echoing crack. Icebergs smoothed and shaped into sculptures of art by the lapping ocean frequently turn upside down when, undermined by the currents below, they become top heavy. Rotating in slow motion, cascades of seawater roll off their sides, before the berg slowly settles into a new position to reveal yet another aspect of nature’s craftsmanship. Uninterrupted by man, nature has been staging these spectacles without an audience for centuries.

Wildlife is abundant. Twice daily trips to the shore reveal penguin colonies numbering in the thousands – blanketing entire hillsides. Simply standing on the ship’s deck guarantees sightings of seals lounging on ice flows, penguins porpoising through the waters, and whales flipping their flukes to the sky before descending the depths in search of krill.

In Antarctica the silence is deafening; the absence of noise almost haunting. It is cold, isolated and untouched. And as many passengers comment it is hard to believe that they are actually here.

But they are.

Antarctica is still the coolest place on Earth to visit.

No longer the exclusive domain of researchers and scientists, Antarctica has become the playground of a new breed of tourist – the adventurer. For some it is a spiritual journey as much as a physical one for others it is simply the satisfaction of stepping foot on their seventh continent but whatever the reason Antarctica does not disappoint.

In fact the journey to Antarctica is half the battle. Passengers’ resolve to reach the last continent is tested almost immediately as the ship leaves Argentina’s Ushuaia to cross the notoriously rough waters of the Drake Passage where the Atlantic, the Pacific and the Southern Ocean meet.

Crossing the Drake takes two sea-tossed days, during which the ship is noticeably empty as passengers either brace cold winds on deck, seeking fresh air to stave off sea sickness, or find greater comfort sleeping through the illness in their cabin.

Arriving in Antarctica, the Drake is quickly forgotten by even the sickest, as at every turn the continent endeavors to impress.

Our first landing is no exception. Arriving on a pebbled beach populated by Gentoo penguins we are encouraged to sit quietly amongst them. Knowing no land-bound predators, least of all humans, the curious penguins pensively approach. The moment is magical when an inquisitive bird finally pecks at my extended hand trying to ascertain what exactly I might be. Humans are not regular visitors to his home so he remains confounded. But it is then that I clearly realise how otherworldly Antarctica really is and how privileged I am to be here.

Photographic opportunities such as the pecking penguins abound and make staying inside difficult despite the cold summer temperatures of -5 to -10degrees Celsius.

In fact, many passengers often live on deck to ensure they don’t miss anything that Antarctica has to offer, while others are content to watch the continent pass by through the panoramic windows of the ship’s bridge in climate controlled comfort.

After 10 days at sea passengers have rolls of finished film for developing, a kaleidoscope of memories moving within their minds, and a steady set of sea legs. All are glowing from their Antarctic experience. Many talk about having caught the polar virus. An addiction that can’t be explained, it has most passengers already thinking about when they will be able to return.